Dying for a Dance

by Cindy Sample

  “Listen, lady, I don't care if you're married to the President of the United States. We have a crime scene here and enough suspects to fill a football stadium. You can't come in, so go home and let us do our job.”

  Tom's tone of voice was less truculent, but equally firm. “I'm sorry ma'am, but you can't enter the building. We'll be tied up for the next few hours interviewing everyone as it is. If you leave your name and number, I promise to call you tomorrow.”

  Dana straightened her shoulders and regained her customary regal posture. “Detective, I cannot understand why you won't let me share my thoughts about Dimitri's death.”

  “Yeah, Tom, you should listen to Dana,” I interrupted as I joined them. The more information he possessed, the better for everyone. And the sooner I could go home.

  “Laurel, it's nice to see you again but a shame we have to meet under such tragic circumstances,” Dana said. “I've tried to share some important information with these gentlemen, but they don't seem to be interested.”

  “I'm sure Detective Hunter would be thrilled to hear anything you can share about this murder,” I replied.

  “Ladies, no one has determined this is a murder,” Tom said, his face drawn. “Trust me. We'll be investigating all possibilities.”

  “I would certainly think you'd want to know about the letters Dimitri received,” Dana replied.

  “Letters?” Tom asked.

  “Not just letters. Death threats.”

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  * * *

  FIVE

  * * * *

  “What do you mean by death threats?” Tom guided Dana out of hearing range. After investigating me for four weeks and dating me for two, he should have known that wouldn't stop me from eavesdropping.

  I ambled over, bent down and played with the back strap of my heel, adjusting the metal clasp as I listened in on their conversation.

  “Dimitri received the first warning about three weeks ago. The note was typed on plain white paper and left in an envelope up front.” Dana pointed in the direction of the reception desk.

  “Did you see the note?”

  “No, he told me about it.”

  “And the reason he confided in you?” The suspicion in Tom's voice was evident to me although Dana didn't seem to notice. Of course I'd been on the wrong end of his interrogations a time or two.

  Marriage to a successful bank president must have honed her instincts because Dana paused for a moment as she contemplated her explanation. “Dimitri has been my dance instructor for over three years. We became friends—very good friends. He felt he could trust me.”

  Tom nodded his acceptance of the explanation. I tossed it around for a few seconds and decided to accept it too. After only a few weeks of dance lessons with Bobby, I felt comfortable confiding in him, much like the personal relationship with my hair stylist.

  “Dimitri received three different notes,” Dana said. “Each one more threatening and disturbing than the previous one. He really freaked out when the third letter arrived.”

  “Did you see any of them?”

  She shook her head. “He told me he tore the first one up thinking it was merely a childish threat. The verbiage was vague. Something like, ‘stop if you know what's good for you.’ The second one was stronger, phrased more like ‘this is the last time we're going to warn you.'”

  “When he received the third note, the threat seemed far more obvious, is that correct?” Tom prompted with his gentle investigator voice. The one he used to catch his suspects unaware.

  And his girlfriends.

  “The third note said, ‘you're a dead man.'”

  “Was it in Russian or English?”

  Dana paused for a minute, her expression perplexed. “I never thought to ask. I assumed it was in English.” She placed her palm on his forearm and blazed a dentist-enhanced pearly white smile in his direction. “Excellent question, detective.”

  Tom nodded, ignoring her. He was used to women simpering over him, flattering him, and plain throwing themselves at him. Must be tough trying to solve crimes when your female suspects are all chasing after you.

  The heavy tread of a paunchy deputy halted their discussion. Katzenbach's expression was as frazzled as the khaki shirt threatening to escape from the regulation belt that couldn't quite contain his non-regulation-sized stomach. Under his breath I heard him mutter something about, “crazy Sputniks.”

  Tom intercepted Katzenbach. “Are you talking about the Russian dancers, Deputy?” he asked him in a sharp tone.

  “All they talk is gibberish. I can't figure out a thing they're saying. How am I supposed to know if they're telling the truth or not?”

  The deputy once again reinforced my low opinion of him. I felt like telling him off, but decided it would be wiser to keep my comments to myself. In the few weeks that I'd taken lessons in the studio, I had discovered that the professional Russian dancers were smart, funny, and ferociously loyal to their friends.

  Tom looked fried, but who could blame him? In less than two hours, he'd contended with a murder, a birth, death threats, and an ex-girlfriend. Tom motioned for Deputy Buzz Cut to follow him out of earshot of Dana and myself. She tapped her right foot while maintaining her graceful posture, either the result of her ballroom dance training, or twenty plus years of community service.

  This was probably the only opportunity I would have to chat with her alone. “Do you compete, Dana?”

  She nodded. “A few years ago when our youngest entered college, I experienced empty nest syndrome. One night when I was watching Dancing with the Stars, I thought, why not? I certainly wasn't getting any younger. I took tap and ballet as a kid, but I'd always wanted to learn how to ballroom dance.

  “You don't need to spread this around the office,” Dana grinned at me, “but Gordon isn't exactly light on his feet. He has as much rhythm as a grizzly bear.”

  I visualized the portly president lumbering through the office. “I guess you don't need rhythm to run a successful bank, do you?”

  “No, all you need is...” It must have dawned on Dana that she was fraternizing with the staff because she suddenly clammed up and started rummaging through her purse.

  I glanced over at El Dorado County's finest. Deputy Kat-zenbach's expression had changed from frazzled to furious. The deputy squared his shoulders then strode to the back of the studio.

  Tom turned back to Dana. “Mrs. Chandler, I'll contact you tomorrow regarding those warnings the victim received.” He reached into the pocket of his charcoal slacks and pulled out a business card. “If you remember anything else, please call me at once. My cell number is on this card.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Dimitri's death is a tragic event and I will do anything in my power to help you. As will my husband, of course. As President of Hangtown Bank, he has tremendous resources.” She slipped the detective's card into an oversized Prada handbag that didn't look like it had been purchased from a street vendor, and gracefully exited the studio.

  “So...dare I ask why Deputy Katzenbach looks so annoyed?” I asked the detective.

  Tom grinned and my heart rate ratcheted up a few notches. The detective's presence was having a greater impact on my emotions than discovering Dimitri's body. I wasn't sure what that meant, other than I was more accustomed to dealing with dead bodies than lovers.

  “Since the heel of your shoe was in the victim's mouth, Katzenbach decided you're guilty.”

  I blanched. “What do you think?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

  “You're still a suspect but you aren't the only one.” His expression was weary as he pointed to the remaining dancers waiting to be interviewed. “Not to mention the killer could have taken off before you found the body.”

  “Are you going to interview everyone here tonight?” Given the Russian dancers’ volubility and poor English, the interview process could turn into an all-nighter. I glanced at the instructors. Marcus fidgeted in his chair, twirling his dark ponytail in
his hands. Bobby sat next to him, solemn and watchful. Yuri and Anya had switched from the seductive rhumba to a paso doble, far more suitable to the somber atmosphere in the studio. Dancing must provide a way for them to cope with the recent tragedy.

  “Our goal is to interview every one of them.” Tom sighed, undoubtedly thinking of the long night ahead for him.

  “What about me?”

  “You're free to go.”

  I blinked. “I am?”

  Tom nodded. “I know where you work. Where you live. And where you're going to be Saturday evening.”

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  * * *

  SIX

  * * * *

  Never doubt the encyclopedic memory of a homicide detective. I'd almost forgotten the elementary school holiday program was scheduled for this Saturday. Tom's daughter, Kristy, and my son, Ben, were in the same second grade classroom. Despite their initial meeting, which consisted of a soccer confrontation between the super-sized little girl and my undersized son, they had formed a close friendship.

  Since my interrogation was over, at least for now, I could head home. Paula stood in the reception area, a shiny gold key chain in her palm. Dimitri's talented student looked forlorn, a feeling I sensed most, if not all of his students would soon experience.

  “Are they done with you?” I asked.

  Paula nodded as she slung her large leather carryall over her shoulder.

  “What an ordeal,” I said.

  Her lower lip trembled. “It's so horrible. I simply can't imagine dancing with another teacher.”

  Uh-oh. Was Paula implying she also had been involved in a romantic relationship with the deceased dancer? I was beginning to wonder if Dimitri spent more time practicing his hip thrusts in the bedroom than on the dance floor.

  Paula noticed my questioning look and shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Dimitri and I are...I mean we were, supposed to compete on New Year's Eve at the Holiday Ball in Lake Tahoe.” She sniffed. “It's one of the biggest dance competitions in the country.”

  “What a shame you'll have to miss it. What level are you competing at?”

  “In the Pro Am open gold division.”

  Impressive. The Pro Am division paired an amateur like Paula with a professional teacher. Competing in the gold category meant Paula had previously won first place in the lower bronze and silver levels.

  “Wow. I didn't realize you were competing at that high of a level. What kind of dances do you perform?”

  “All the International Standard dances.”

  I must have looked puzzled because she elaborated. “It's like American Smooth but with one extra dance.”

  “American Smooth?” These ballroom dancers spoke an entire language of their own.

  She smiled and her eyes lit up. You could tell ballroom was her passion. “In American smooth you perform the fox trot, waltz, tango, and Viennese waltz. International Standard is a European version of the same dances. The style is different because you always remain in a closed hold with your partner. You also perform one additional dance called the quickstep.”

  Quickstep? I didn't know what that dance entailed, but I was having enough problems with the “slow slow” concept of foxtrot. My clumsy feet would never catch on to something called quickstep.

  “Why don't you compete with Bobby?”

  Paula's keys clanged together as they dropped to the floor. She chuckled as she bent over and scooped them up. “Laurel, it's not that easy to switch partners. Plus Bobby has only been dancing five years himself. Dimitri and I have been practicing ten to twelve hours a week for the past three years trying to get me up to this level.”

  Ten plus hours a week? If I practiced that much I'd be as good as...

  I looked down at my bunion-enhanced size nines. Nah. No amount of practice would turn me into Ginger Rogers. Or even Paula.

  She sighed and went back to her key jangling. “I'll talk to Boris and see if he'll compete with me. Did you know he was a world champion ten years ago?”

  I knew Boris had won some competitions, but not at that level. So those photos in his office did represent a successful dance career and not just an uber-sized ego.

  The crime scene technicians were still hard at work in the parking lot, taking photos from different angles under bright flood lights. My eyes grew teary again. Even if the rumors were true and Dimitri cheated on his pregnant wife, the man did not deserve to die.

  We arrived at my car. Paula and I hugged each other good-bye, females bonding through a tragic event. I remained deep in thought as I pulled out of the lot, my periwinkle Prius directly behind Paula's black Mercedes SUV. Based on her car of choice, Paula could easily afford so many private lessons.

  My own lessons with Bobby cost fifty dollars an hour. As the top teacher in the studio, Dimitri charged seventy-five an hour. Paula must really be motivated to compete. If Liz hadn't insisted on paying for my private lessons, I wouldn't have been able to afford even one hour with my teacher.

  Who would have thought when Liz and I met at college, two escapees from a drunken frat party that twenty years later I would be dancing at her wedding. Although this time, I hoped my escort would skip the fringed lampshade on his head.

  Liz and Brian had met through a local dating agency called the Love Club. I'd joined the same dating service with far less success but I was thrilled they had found one another. My best friend had waited a long time to find her Prince Charming and she deserved to live the fairy tale of “happily ever after.”

  As I drove home, I mulled over the events of the evening. Irina's furious response to her husband's bizarre death saddened me. Having suffered the pain and rejection of my ex-husband's infidelity, I could empathize with her in that respect. But her violent reaction seemed extreme by any standard. Was her anger merely the result of a hormone imbalance due to her pregnancy? Or was the fiery widow capable of killing her unfaithful husband?

  Could a marriage go so wrong that one partner was willing to murder the other?

  These negative thoughts swirled through my mind as I approached the house that my ex-husband, Hank, a contractor, had built shortly after Jenna's birth. Despite our marriage disintegrating more than two years ago, Hank had agreed that I should remain in the house where our children had been raised. Lately, it seemed like creaks and cracks were appearing in our home on a daily basis.

  I twisted my head to the left to check for traffic and my neck creaked in response. My body was also starting to show its age. And I was still a few months shy of forty. Ballroom dancing was lauded for improving balance, brain acuity, and plain old weight control. I'd be thrilled if I could see improvement in any one of those areas.

  Actually I'd be thrilled if I could put my panty hose on while standing.

  I pulled into the driveway of our Craftsman style home, squeezed the car into our filled-beyond-capacity two car garage, and entered the house through the connecting garage door. The hallway and kitchen were both dark. My children used to burn electricity with the willful abandon of millionaires, but now that they'd been taught the benefits of “going green,” it was all I could do to get them to use a sixty-watt bulb in their bedrooms.

  Ben's latest ploy to avoid doing homework was his claim that by not using electricity he was helping the environment.

  Nice try, but his mother wasn't born yesterday. I hit the light switch, which illuminated the bright yellow kitchen walls. My rooster clock glared at me from its perch above the sink displaying the time as nine thirty. Ben should be in bed, but Jenna was probably still up studying. My daughter was only a junior, but she had already decided she wanted to be an astronaut, or at least the first person to build a vacation home on the moon.

  My seven-year-old just wanted to know if the man on the moon was bald.

  I climbed the stairs then pushed open the door and peered into Ben's room. Beams of moonlight glinted on the posters lining his walls. Batman and Superman posters were intertwined with ferocious dinosaur
s. A poster of a Tyrannosaurus Rex hung over his bed. With its jaws wide open, the T-Rex looked poised to devour my son for a snack.

  It never ceased to amaze me how Ben could sleep surrounded by creatures that were right out of Jurassic Park. He lay there breathing softly, hair tousled, deep in a young boy's sleep, his arm wrapped around his cat. There was no way I was going to disturb my son. Or Pumpkin. I'd never met a cat that slept less than Pumpkin, our newly adopted calico kitten.

  Light beckoned from under Jenna's closed door. I knocked quietly then turned the knob.

  The pink end of an eraser-tipped pencil grazed her upper lip as she gnawed on her lower lip. Her cornflower blue eyes squinted slightly as she focused on the fine print of her textbook. It might be time to have her eyes examined in case she inherited my myopic genes.

  “Hi, honey,” I said softly.

  She nodded without looking at me, the auburn tresses that curled halfway down her back swinging in unison with the movement of her head. When my daughter focused on a task, she wasn't easily distracted.

  Good, I could drop the D bomb and she might not even notice. In the McKay household, the D word unfortunately meant “dead body.” After my involvement in that murder investigation a few months ago, I felt obligated to disclose what happened at the studio tonight.

  “Bobby and I worked on my foxtrot.”

  “Um hmm.”

  “He said I could be the next Ginger Rogers.”

  “Um hmm.”

  The next response would determine whether she was focused on her homework or her mother.

  “I found a dead man.”

  “Um hmm.”

  I closed her door and walked down to my own bedroom. That was way easier than I anticipated.

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  * * *

  SEVEN

  * * * *

  After dreams of dead dancers and tall dark detectives, I woke up Friday morning, my head pounding with questions. Had the detectives determined what happened? Would the entire studio be closed and considered a crime scene? Would I get out of my dance lesson on Saturday?